"Robert McCammon - Night Calls The Green Falcon" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

тАЬJulie!тАЭ he shouted. He kicked the door, and his slipper flew off. Then he
threw his shoulder against it, and the door cracked on its hinges but
didnтАЩt give way. Again he rammed into the door, and a third time. On the
fourth blow the doorтАЩs hinges tore away from the wood and it crashed
down, sending Cray sprawling into the apartment.
He got up on his hands and knees, his shoulder hurting like hell. The
young man was across the untidy room, still struggling with the reluctant
window, and he paid Cray no attention. Cray stood up, and looked at the
bed where Julie lay, naked on her back.
He caught his breath as if heтАЩd been punched in the stomach. The blood
was still streaming from the scarlet mass of Julie SaufleyтАЩs throat, and it
had splattered across the yellow wall like weird calligraphy. Her eyes were
wet and aimed up at the ceiling, her hands gripped around the bars of the
iron bed-frame. Without clothes, her body was white and childlike, and
she hardly had any breasts at all. The blood was everywhere. So red. CrayтАЩs
heart was labouring, and as he stared at the slashed throat he heard the
window slide up. He blinked, everything hazy and dreamlike, and watched
the young blond man climb through the window onto the fire escape.
Oh God, Cray thought. He wavered on his feet, feared he was about to
faint. Oh my God тАж
Julie had brought the Fliptop Killer home to play.
His first impulse was to shout for help, but he squelched it. He knew the
shout would rob his breath and strength, and right now he needed both of
them. The LaPrestas were still fighting. What would one more shout be?
He stepped forward. Another step, and a third one followed. With the
rusty agility of a champion gymnast, he ran to the open window and slid
out to the fire escape.
The Fliptop Killer was about to go down the ladder. Cray reached out,
grasped the young manтАЩs t-shirt in his freckled fist, and said hoarsely, тАЬNo
.тАЭ
The man twisted towards him. The small black eyes regarded him
incuriously: the emotionless gaze of a clinician. There were a few spatters
of blood on his face, but not many. Practice had honed his reflexes, and he
knew how to avoid the jetting crimson. Cray gripped his shirt; they stared
at each other for a few ticks of time, and then the killerтАЩs right hand
flashed up with an extra finger of metal.
The knife swung at CrayтАЩs face, but Cray had already seen the blow
coming in the tension of the manтАЩs shoulder and as he let go of the shirt
and scrambled backwards the blade hissed past.
And now the Fliptop Killer stepped towards him тАУ a long stride, knife
upraised, the face cold and without expression, as if he were about to cut a
hanging piece of beef. But a woman screamed from an open window, and
as the manтАЩs head darted to the side Cray grasped the wrist of his knife
hand and shouted, тАЬCall the po тАУтАЭ
A fist hit him in the face, crumpling his nose and mashing his lips. He
pitched back, stunned тАУ and he fell over the fire escapeтАЩs railing into
empty space.